great clinkers . . . and we have to live with it! Us, what’s managed to keep ourselves clean and decent and not ponging like a million arseholes!’
He stared round at the rest of us; stinking, louse-ridden and dirt-encrusted.
‘We’re decent enough blokes,’ he said, virtuously. “We’re used to certain standards of hygiene. Like the Colonel. That’s why he has to call inspections in the middle of the war and make sure we’ve not got ingrowing toenails nor fungus in our belly buttons.’ He stared very hard at Tiny. ‘These things are important, you know. You might think it’s more important to stay down here in the trenches and keep an eye on them Russkies over there. In case they take advantage of our absence, like. But that’s where you’d be wrong, see. ’Cos unless you’re a nice clean soldier what brushes out his pubic hairs now and again and stops to polish up his perishing buttons before he goes into an attack, you won’t be FIT to fight the bleeding Russkies! How do you think a Russian’s going to feel if he sees a scarecrow like you coming at him with a bayonet? He won’t be able to take you serious, will he? I mean, he can’t be expected to, can he? I mean, let’s be reasonable about it. A perishing dirty great lout like you, what can be smelt stinking for bleeding miles around . . . he’d laugh his bleeding bollocks off!’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ objected Tiny, who as usual had followed the whole of Porta’s argument with the utmost seriousness.
‘What you mean, he wouldn’t? Course he would! Anyone would!’
‘Well, they bloody wouldn’t, so that’s just where you’re wrong!’ Tiny pointed triumphantly at Porta. ‘’Cos I’d have stack the bayonet in ’em before they had a chance, wouldn’t I?’
Porta turned to the rest of us with a wide gesture of despair, and we looked at Tiny’s face, puckered with bewilderment, even now not too sure whether he had scored a point, and we fell about laughing. Even Lt. Spät was grinning. Lt. Ohlsen was the only one to keep a straight face. I was not even sure that he had been listening. He was staring along the lines, watching men who were dog tired, who had been under constant pressure and without sleep for days on end, painfully scrubbing themselves with icy water. There were no towels for drying. There was no soap, there were no razors. Uniforms that were beyond all hope of cleaning or repair were being sponged down in pathetic attempts to make them fit for the Colonel’s inspection. Equipment was being polished on pieces of filthy rag.
As our laughter died away, we followed Lt. Ohlsen’s gaze, reflecting in sombre bitterness that soon we ourselves should have to put our protesting bodies to work and begin on our own spit and polish. I looked across at the Lieutenant and saw a muscle twitch in his face.
‘Great screaming queen,’ he suddenly muttered, through clenched teeth. ‘Stupid sodding pig-headed bird-brained bastard!’
A sudden shocked silence came upon us. We stared at the Lieutenant, stunned by the vehemence in his voice. It was not so much what he said that startled us – God knows, compared with Porta’s more choice expressions his language was mild indeed – but more the way he said it. We had known the Lieutenant in his moments of anger and exasperation, we had known him impatient, we had known him sarcastic, but this was the cold, grim, almost desperate bitterness of a man who has taken just about as much as he can stand, and even Porta was moved to silence.
Ohlsen turned slowly to look at us. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically and rubbed a hand across his brow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, abruptly. ‘It gets you down at times.’
‘What can one do?’ muttered Spät. ‘They treat you like machines, only you’re not machines, you’re human beings, and now and again something happens that reminds you of it, and then you feel so damned sick at the things you have to do . . .’
The inspection took
He stared round at the rest of us; stinking, louse-ridden and dirt-encrusted.
‘We’re decent enough blokes,’ he said, virtuously. “We’re used to certain standards of hygiene. Like the Colonel. That’s why he has to call inspections in the middle of the war and make sure we’ve not got ingrowing toenails nor fungus in our belly buttons.’ He stared very hard at Tiny. ‘These things are important, you know. You might think it’s more important to stay down here in the trenches and keep an eye on them Russkies over there. In case they take advantage of our absence, like. But that’s where you’d be wrong, see. ’Cos unless you’re a nice clean soldier what brushes out his pubic hairs now and again and stops to polish up his perishing buttons before he goes into an attack, you won’t be FIT to fight the bleeding Russkies! How do you think a Russian’s going to feel if he sees a scarecrow like you coming at him with a bayonet? He won’t be able to take you serious, will he? I mean, he can’t be expected to, can he? I mean, let’s be reasonable about it. A perishing dirty great lout like you, what can be smelt stinking for bleeding miles around . . . he’d laugh his bleeding bollocks off!’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ objected Tiny, who as usual had followed the whole of Porta’s argument with the utmost seriousness.
‘What you mean, he wouldn’t? Course he would! Anyone would!’
‘Well, they bloody wouldn’t, so that’s just where you’re wrong!’ Tiny pointed triumphantly at Porta. ‘’Cos I’d have stack the bayonet in ’em before they had a chance, wouldn’t I?’
Porta turned to the rest of us with a wide gesture of despair, and we looked at Tiny’s face, puckered with bewilderment, even now not too sure whether he had scored a point, and we fell about laughing. Even Lt. Spät was grinning. Lt. Ohlsen was the only one to keep a straight face. I was not even sure that he had been listening. He was staring along the lines, watching men who were dog tired, who had been under constant pressure and without sleep for days on end, painfully scrubbing themselves with icy water. There were no towels for drying. There was no soap, there were no razors. Uniforms that were beyond all hope of cleaning or repair were being sponged down in pathetic attempts to make them fit for the Colonel’s inspection. Equipment was being polished on pieces of filthy rag.
As our laughter died away, we followed Lt. Ohlsen’s gaze, reflecting in sombre bitterness that soon we ourselves should have to put our protesting bodies to work and begin on our own spit and polish. I looked across at the Lieutenant and saw a muscle twitch in his face.
‘Great screaming queen,’ he suddenly muttered, through clenched teeth. ‘Stupid sodding pig-headed bird-brained bastard!’
A sudden shocked silence came upon us. We stared at the Lieutenant, stunned by the vehemence in his voice. It was not so much what he said that startled us – God knows, compared with Porta’s more choice expressions his language was mild indeed – but more the way he said it. We had known the Lieutenant in his moments of anger and exasperation, we had known him impatient, we had known him sarcastic, but this was the cold, grim, almost desperate bitterness of a man who has taken just about as much as he can stand, and even Porta was moved to silence.
Ohlsen turned slowly to look at us. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically and rubbed a hand across his brow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, abruptly. ‘It gets you down at times.’
‘What can one do?’ muttered Spät. ‘They treat you like machines, only you’re not machines, you’re human beings, and now and again something happens that reminds you of it, and then you feel so damned sick at the things you have to do . . .’
The inspection took
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